


In Utero: Missing Scene Challenge

by dksfwm



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dksfwm/pseuds/dksfwm
Summary: Mulder and Scully talk about the baby.





	In Utero: Missing Scene Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first attempt at fan fiction, after being a fandom lurker for almost a year. Believe it or not, I actually wrote this like a month ago and honestly thought it would never see the light of day, but then @2momsmakearight‘s Missing Scene Challenge popped up and I figured, what the heck.
> 
> I just had a lot of thoughts about when Scully actually told Mulder that he was William’s father (because there’s no way that she never gave him any confirmation, let’s be real), and this little thing resulted from that.
> 
> Also, I’m sure someone has written something similar to this before, and that’s probably where my inspiration came from; if that’s the case, my apologies!

He places the key in the lock, surprised that it still moves counterclockwise with his wrist. As if he doubts that his key would still work. He knows he should knock, but at this hour, it’s useless: the person on the other side of the door has long been asleep. As he twists the knob and pushes the door open, he sucks in a breath. Nervous. He’s nervous. He thinks,  _this is how someone must feel during their first breaking and entering_. He’s not breaking, and it wouldn’t be his first time anyway; he knows he’s welcome to enter whenever. At least, he used to be.  
  
As he gently swings the door closed behind him, he realizes that he is making a mistake. He should not be here, she does not want him here, or she would have told him so. He tries to push those thoughts aside as he toes off his shoes and quietly shakes out of his jacket, hanging it up on the hook on the wall next to the door. He lines up his shoes directly underneath his jacket, knowing she would be upset to see them in the middle of the floor when she woke. He takes a step towards the hall and freezes, thinking he should just turn around and walk away. She would never know he had been here if he were to leave right now.  
  
His movements are on autopilot now, contradicting his thoughts. He tries to redirect them, but he’s finds controlling them to be difficult.  _Don’t do it_ , he thinks at first. But then he takes another step.  _Just go, go to her._ He follows his feet, and in a few silent strides, he is at her bedroom doorway. It’s opened just a crack, which is odd. She usually sleeps with the door completely shut.  _It must be because she’s constantly getting up to use the bathroom_ , he presumes.  _It can’t be comfortable having something persistently pushing against your bladder. No, not something,_  he corrects, _someone._  
  
He pushes her door open slowly and stands at the entry for a few moments, taking her in. She’s curled on the left half of the bed, resting on her right side with her left hand clutching her swollen belly. She takes up more space now than she used to, but he reminds himself that there are technically two people in that bed, not just her. She’s sleeping heavily, and he sees the deep rise and fall of her chest. He takes a quick glance at the clock on her nightstand. 2:23. He hesitates for a moment, thoughts of doubt filling his mind again.  
  
But then he sees her sigh heavily and let out a whimper, as if afraid. A tear silently falls down her left cheek, escaping her closed eye, and her grip on her abdomen tightens. In an instant, he is gently crawling into the bed behind her. He feels her sink into him as the mattress dips with his added weight. He rests his left hand over hers, the one that’s protecting the life inside of her. She starts at his touch, gasping as her eyes go wide. He removes his hand, hovering closely so that he still feels the warmth radiating from her skin, but enough to lose the physical contact that leaves him slightly empty.  
  
“Go back to sleep,” he whispers into her hair. “I’m sorry I woke you.”  
  
“Mulder?” Her voice is groggy, and he detects a hint of bewilderment, but he recognizes the underlying relief in her tone, as well.  
  
He puts his hand over hers again, stroking it lightly. “I just…” He’s at a loss for words, distressing thoughts invading his mind again.  
  
She turns over to face him, awkwardly, due to her protruding stomach, and when she’s settled, he wipes away the streak of wetness her tear tracked down her face. His touch is delicate, as if he’s afraid she might break from too much contact. She doesn’t lean into him, just simply closes her eyes again.  _It didn’t used to be this way_ , he thinks. The last time he remembers her crying in her sleep, she was dying from her cancer. His thoughts now flood with memories of sleepless nights on his end, watching her cry as she slept, holding back tears of his own. He wonders now if she had just as many of those nights during his absence.  _You were actually dead_ , he thinks,  _it was so much worse for her_.  
  
He wonders what made her cry this time.  _You, jackass. You’ve caused her so much pain. How can you be so selfish, wanting the child she’s carrying to be yours? You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve that child._  
  
He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He’s about to ask her what she was dreaming about when her eyes flutter open to meet his. Ashamed, he plants the direction of his gaze firmly on the strip of bare skin peeking out below her pajama top. When he finally shifts his eyes back to her, he sees the look on her face, as if she’s grappling with what’s going through his mind. She’s concerned over his thoughts, and he’s wallowing in them.  _Yeah, I really don’t deserve her_.  
  
A few minutes pass, and his gaze has returned to her stomach. His thumb traces a path just below the hem of her shirt. He speaks so quietly and it’s not quite a whisper, more like a sigh with almost unintelligible words. “I just have to know. Is this my… am I going to be a…” He can’t finish his sentences, and he’s not sure if he truly can’t find the words, or if speaking them means she’ll give him an answer he’s not ready to hear.  
  
She keeps her eyes focused on his face, pleading silently for him to meet her gaze. She sighs and grabs his left hand with her right, placing it fully on her abdomen just below her belly button, letting her fingers slide between his. They keep their palms flat against her stomach, feeling her skin radiate against their combined touch. “Mulder,” she says, “I want you to tell me a story.”  
  
He looks up at her, their eyes locking on each other once again. This time, he keeps his hazel, blue-green eyes even with her ocean blue ones. Despite the perplexing expression he knows his face embodies, hers is calm, the corners of her mouth even slightly turned up. He’s not sure why she’s avoiding his question, but he obliges and begins to speak.  
  
“Have I ever told you about how I became a Yankees fan?” She shakes her head, carefully propping herself up slightly on her left elbow. Their hands remain gently pressed against her skin. “Well,” he continues, “It was just over a week shy of my sixteenth birthday when the Yanks began their ’77 playoff run. I had always liked baseball, despite the fact that no one else in my family did. I played for years, too, which you knew already.” Her smile grows slightly.   
  
“But I had yet to feel truly connected to a professional team. So I sat down and began to watch that seasons’ playoffs. The Yanks won the ALCS in five, and Game 5 was a nail-biter. They were down 3-2, but in the top of the ninth, they got three more runs. It was incredible, coming back from behind like that! Anyway, the World Series began two days before my birthday, and Game 1 went into extra innings…”  
  
He stops his rambling when he feels movement beneath his hand. He looks down at where his hand meets hers, and is conscious of yet another distinct movement a few seconds later. Her hand hasn’t moved, and neither has his. He looks back up at her with wide, curious eyes, tears threatening to break the surface. Her smile is blissful and her eyes show contentment; he realizes this is the first time she’s smiled at him like this since he returned.  
  
“I wanted the baby to know your voice, just in case…” her smile fades, and her breath hitches. He knows what she cannot bear to speak,  _in case I never came back_.  
  
“The baby knows my voice? How?”  
  
She lets go of his hand and sits up cautiously. She turns to the nightstand at the side of her bed and opens the drawer, revealing a portable CD player equipped with headphones. She turns back to him and lifts her shirt slightly, placing the headphones on each side of her stomach. The player comes to rest at the top of her stomach just below her breasts. She switches the player on, turning the volume up slightly, and presses “Play.” She places her hand on his head, encouraging him to move closer to her stomach near one of the headphones, faintly hearing his voice emitting through the speaker.  
  
“What’s on that CD?” he asks, voicing his confusion with the first of many eager questions.  
  
“Old recordings of some of our case files. Conversations you had with the Gunmen. They didn’t always turn the tape off, you know.”  
  
He glances up toward her and sits up fully, slightly baffled, but hanging on her every word.  
  
“When I told the Gunmen I was pregnant, they compiled anything and everything they had of you speaking. They put it on a disk and gave me this,” she lifts up the portable player. “They told me that they read somewhere how by 24 weeks, a baby’s hearing is developed enough that they begin responding to sounds and voices that they recognize, which I already knew. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first.” A tear escapes her eye when she closes them and sighs, trying to collect her thoughts. “We decided it would be a good idea for the baby to have something, especially when he got older, so that he could hear his father’s voice whenever…” She trails off, her gaze dropping, and he doesn’t need her to finish.  
  
“He?”  
  
She casts a glance his way and smirks. “Technically, I don’t know what it is. But I think it’s a he. I want it to be a he.” Her voice grows smaller as she continues to speak.  
  
“You could always find out, Scully.”  
  
She gives him a wholehearted smile, but she sounds dejected when she utters, “I didn’t want to find out without you.”  
  
When their eyes meet again, they both soften. He takes the headphones off her belly and pushes the CD player towards the foot of the bed. He cups her face and plants small kisses on her forehead, nose, and cheeks before settling on her lips, leaving them pressed together longer than he anticipated. When he breaks the kiss, they settle back down on their sides, facing each other. He takes her right hand in his left, placing it on her belly.  
  
“When’s your next appointment?”  
  
“Thursday.” She pauses, hesitates even, but begins again. “You could come, if you want. We could find out, if you…”  
  
“I want.”  
  
The baby kicks again, and he thinks he’s never seen a smile so exquisite on her face. He props himself up slightly and turns onto his back. His right arm goes around her shoulders, pulling her as close as their child will allow, and she nuzzles her nose into his neck.  
  
“We’re having a baby, Scully.”  
  
“Yeah, Mulder. We’re having a baby.”  
  
Her eyes close slowly, taking only minutes to fall back to sleep. His thumb begins rubbing her stomach, soothing both her and the life they created. He listens to her breathing, and when he thinks it’s deep enough, he whispers, “So, kid, on October 18th, 1977, the Yankees won their 21st World Series…”


End file.
